Impact in 3, 2, 1
by IronyRocks
Summary: A post s4 ep Be All My Sins Remembered. The trip takes three days, sixteen hours and forty-two minutes long – and then she’s home again. A part of her instinctively braces itself for impact. Sheppard/Weir


Story Notes: For VICKYSG1, written for Sparky_Santa. "A post s4 ep Be all my sins remember'd with John and his team finding out that Elizabeth is still alive. Mainly angst please, but with a bit of romance thrown in. Bonus points for Elizabeth in leather." Rated R, for sexuality.

* * *

**Rule #1: Always stay calm and composed, no matter what.**

They stumble upon her in the middle of an outer space battlefield.

When a blimp of a puddle-jumper first appears amidst the pandemonium, Elizabeth barely notices it, too focused on giving the final go-ahead to take the wraith ship out with _Athena's_ special weapon; designed by the Asurans, perfected by one of Elizabeth's engineers on board. _Athena's_ blue flame strikes out, and a beat of utter silence descends before the hiveship flashes blindingly in a white blaze. The echo of a sonic boom follows seconds afterwards and shockwaves slam into her vessel.

There's a cry of victory from her crew, but over the clamor her communications officer says something strange. "We've got a radio signal from an unknown source."

Elizabeth cranes her neck, eyes latching onto the blue screen. Her hand falls to the faded leather of her command chair; the _Athena_ is older than any other running ship the Asurans had, but it holds true. It held true through six breakdowns, two firefights, and an escape plan that should never have worked. Elizabeth wills the adrenaline to abate, and gives the command to patch the feed through with a nod.

And damn it all to hell, all the composure in the universe becomes undone by John's singular voice over the radio.

--

"I didn't want you to find out this way," she offers, when they're alone for the first time in over two years. "I always planned on contacting Atlantis, but—"

"We moved, and kept below radar," John finishes for her. "Right?"

It sounds almost casual. You'd have to know John very well to read the nuances in the question. The explanation is only half-true and he knows it. The difficulty of finding Atlantis was an obstacle but not the main one. John glances away briefly because his eyes give away too much; the disbelief at his own excuse apparent in the swirl of hazel.

"It's been a long time," he says, to fill the silence enveloping them. "We thought… I thought you were gone."

It's her turn to look away, eyes latching onto the distant sight of Rodney berating a member of her crew. She almost smiles, but the weight of her conversation with John is choking – too much spoken in too little. She remembers once thinking of John as a boy-king, a person unwittingly thrust into a position of power. But he looks aged now and not just in years.

Is he wiser since they last met? Colder?

Or maybe she's just projecting onto him?

"C'mon," she says. "I'll give you the dime tour."

--

She's explaining about the detailed weapons upgrade of _Athena_ when his hand grazes hers, a brush of skin-on-skin contact that pulls her long strides to a sudden stop. She pivots to face him, and he looks like he wants to say something but can't find the right words.

"Elizabeth," he says, then licks his lips nervously. "I, ah…"

She can't do this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She makes up some quick excuse and escapes down the long cold hall, headed for solitude.

--  
**Rule #2: If things seem too good to be true, then whatever you do, don't trust it.**

That night, she's awoken by a terrifying thought. "They're not really here," she breaths, voice scratchy, throat aching. "They're just in…"

She brushes her temple with her fingers, remembering Oberoth's mind games – the way he used to manipulate her consciousness to play out whatever sick reality he wanted. A perfect method of interrogation, but – she persists desperately – she escaped that long ago. Curling up into a tight ball on her slim bed, the small blanket wraps around her but provides little warmth in the cold chill of outer space.

She stays awake the rest of the night.

--

She gathers quickly that Rodney's still stinging from guilt.

It's a long forgotten offence in her eyes, even unwarranted, but she doubts that she'll ever be able to convince Rodney otherwise. He wears his emotions on his sleeves, so stark and apparent, especially to her. Maybe that's why she picked him all those years ago in Antarctica. She'd seen his vulnerability for what it was, and a part of her still responds to that, wants to comfort him because he is so much more than he holds himself out to be. Even with his arrogance.

"Come back to Atlantis with us," he pleads, couched amidst a never-ending tirade about the condition of her ship. He repeats it to make sure she's paying attention. "Come back to Atlantis with us, and we can—we can make repairs."

"Rodney—"

"Just for a little while," he overrides anxiously, desperate. "For the repairs."

--

The trip is three days, sixteen hours and forty-two minutes long – and then she's home again.

Finally.

A part of her braces itself for impact.

--  
**Rule #3: Never let them see you flinch.**

She isn't "Dr. Elizabeth Weir" anymore, so the leather outfit fits her like a second skin now. Transfixed, her eyes stay glued to the Atlantis horizon, inhaling the salt air. The smell is more prevalent than the other planet Atlantis called home for more than ten millennia. There are other subtle differences, but mostly… it's like nothing has changed in the city at all.

She's changed so much; shouldn't some of that be reflected here? It stings a little, like the city that was her soul for three years never really needed her in the first place.

It takes her a while to realize appearances can be deceiving.

--

Elizabeth likes Jennifer Keller. She always has.

But she still isn't Carson Beckett.

She looks around the infirmary, and the place embodies Carson so much that he fills it from corner to corner, ceiling to floor. Carson may have left, but he still is very much a part of everything in this place. When they're running tests on Elizabeth – poking, prodding and scanning for days – she misses his comforting presence so much, so fiercely, that tears almost string to her eyes at one point.

She can't look at the infirmary and _not_ think one miserable thought: it had all started to go wrong with his death.

--

Colonel Carter's presence is an unexpected development, but one that quickly makes sense. The IOA wouldn't put another stubborn civilian leader in charge, not after the troubles they had with keeping Elizabeth in line. They'll want someone to follow orders, and Elizabeth suspects that if Carter ever disobeys, she'll be yanked back to the Milky Way so fast it'll defy the speed of light.

"Dr. Weir?" Carter calls, when she notices Elizabeth standing outside the clear glass walls of her office. "Is there something you need?"

She pauses for a moment. She really doesn't know what she's doing there; her feet had just traveled this familiar path on its' own. "No," Elizabeth eventually recovers. "I was just…"

"What?"

Elizabeth forces a smile, but it feels stretched and fake and Carter can probably see through it like the glass walls. "Leaving."

She walks away from the office with a lump in her throat.

--  
**Rule #4: Don't ever let your guard down. Not even for a moment.**

She steps onto the balcony, loitering there just before dawn after a nightmare wakes her up from what little sleep she got. The guards stand at a distance, but she can still feel their presence like a heavy weight behind her. She ignores them, clasps hands together and watches the dimming of the stars. The peaceful spires of the city reflect in the shimmering water below, and she greets a new sunrise for the first time in years.

Then John appears, keeping his distance – respectful, reserved. He still has no idea how to act around her and the feeling is mutual. He glides beside her on the balcony, elbows braced against the railing. She feels her heart beat in her chest, listens to the distant waves, feels the dew of fresh condensation on the railings when her fingers curl around the bar. They don't talk. They don't touch. They don't do anything but stand side-by-side, looking out.

Once upon a time, she might have been in love with this man.

They'd been lovers for only three brief weeks before she'd been taken; everything had still been in the new and exciting stage. She wonders if it's still there – those feelings – or if this is just lingering memory perception; something that her body remembers and her mind heeds, like the taste of chocolate and the comfort of a warm fire. He reminds her of a better time, a happier time.

But she isn't the same person anymore. She doubts he is, either.

John says only one thing to break the silence. "I've missed this."

And then abruptly, Elizabeth feels like a part of her just slid back into place, and she _can't_ be that naïve. She just can't. She has new rules now, rules that she lives by to survive and endure, and she can't go back to the person she was before. She is stronger now, braver, different; that came at the cost of her old life.

There just isn't room for this – for _him_. Not anymore.

But she hates that with repetition, the mantra begins to lose effect.

--  
**Rule #5: Your crew's needs come first and foremost.**

The days grow long, and the _Athena_ crew become agitated and nervous, especially since the familiarity of Atlantis distinctly echoes the city they left behind when they all escaped Oberoth's clutches.

Elizabeth tries to calm them, but they don't listen.

"We must leave," Carim implores. "We are not welcome here."

"We are," Elizabeth insists. "These are my friends."

Carim glances pointedly to the door, where the guards are posted outside their room. "They do not treat you like it."

"They're just taking precautions. They have to. It's what I would do if I were in their position."

Another crewmember steps forward, head tilted aside, assessing. "If you were in their position, would you trust us?"

Elizabeth falters for a second, and then lies, "Yes."

--  
**Rule #6: The past is the past. Leave it there.**

Elizabeth's never been one for napping during the day. It normally takes her a long time to shut down and relax, so when there's a knock at the door an hour after she's retreated for rest, she's only just fallen asleep. She blinks groggily, eyes heavily lidded with fatigue.

It's shocking how – for those first few seconds after waking – the last two years fall away without conscious thought. All she realizes is she's padding barefoot across the Atlantis marble, blurry eyed and carefree. Nanites, Asurians, Oberoth – they're the furthest things from her thoughts.

It lasts only for a few seconds, but damn do those seconds feel good.

When she answers the door, the guard moves aside and Teyla greets her with a fond smile. "Tea?" she asks, because they've done this dozens of time before. A longtime ritual that has dusted and faded from memory, but suddenly it's crystal clear again. "Ronon falls asleep, Rodney is too impatient, and John detests the taste of it. You are my only hope for a decent conversation over tea."

Elizabeth laughs and waves her in.

The guard stays outside.

--

It happens when they let sentiment get too much of them.

John's body pins her against the sturdy wall and Elizabeth doesn't think between aggressive kisses. It's stupid, and wrong, and they both know better, but his lips are trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, hands greedily clutching her hips as he whispers desperate words. _Missed you so fucking much._ He sinks against her, bodies aligned, digits fumbling with the zipper of her leather suit and–

Fuck, she can't do this.

She wrenches herself free, ignoring John's protests, and mutters something about this being an accident.

"How do you accidently make out with someone?" John demands.

She quickly escapes without answering.

--  
**Rule #7: If anger keeps you focused and alive, then don't ever let it fade.**

Carter sets the ballpoint pen down on a stack of papers. "This wasn't what I was expecting."

Elizabeth slants her a look, the glass desk between them. "What?"

"This post," Carter clarifies, and rises to stand. She gestures to the clear glass walls and comes to stand side-by-side with Elizabeth, watching the bustle of the gateroom below. "The irony of this situation is… I never wanted this position in the first place. I still consider my home to be on Earth. I miss SG-1 like a limb sometimes, but orders are orders."

"Funny how things worked out," Elizabeth muses wryly.

Carter rolls her eyes and whispers just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear, "Funny isn't the particular F-word I'd use, actually."

--

Two days later, the city goes into quarantine when John's team comes back from PX3-4S2 infected with a contagion that strips the host of higher brain functions, reducing them to animistic behavior –_violent_ animalistic behavior.

Lorne's men capture Rodney and Teyla four hours after the symptoms manifest, but Ronon and John run havoc somewhere in the bowels of the city. Keller begins sprouting theories about native planets and possible cures from PX3-4S2, while the city sensors detect Elizabeth and her crew are the only ones with entire immunity to the contagion.

"You have to override the lockdown," Keller says. "Or we'll never be able to capture Col. Sheppard and Ronon before the effects become irreversible. I need to inject them with a viral agent that will slow the progress, and I still need access to the native plants to do that."

While the rest of the city is in lockdown, and Carter is trapped in the mess room with a dozen other soldiers and scientists, the city lets Elizabeth walk through the hallways unrestrained. The City is exposed, vulnerable. Her crew works quickly. She sends a team through the Stargate to recover samples, and another to track down John and Ronon.

Of course, things don't go exactly according to plan.

--

Elizabeth has flashbacks to the Iratus bug incident when John slams her to the ground and bars his teeth, vicious and snarling. Breathing would be a problem for her if she'd been entirely human. Luckily for her (in this instance anyway), she's not. She grabs his wrists and twists with nanite-infused strength, wrenching his hand off and reeling back. She sends him skidding to the ground, and then she's atop him, fingers through his forehead, invading his consciousness in a way only a Replicator can do.

Inside, John is there, human and whole and fully cognizant of his actions. They stare at each other, trapped in an empty purple-tinged room with low hazy beams of light.

"Where are we?"

"I'm keeping your consciousness grounded in this artificial reality," she explains. "We're trying to find a cure for you."

"Teyla? Rodney?" he asks urgently.

"Sedated," she informs. "Keller thinks she can work a cure."

He looks confused and disoriented, sweeping an anxious gaze about the room. "Ronon is still out there."

"My crew will find him."

He clenches his jaw and looks away, a tendon in his neck pulsing in tension. He licks his lips, a tick of nervousness peaking through, and the silence turns choked between them. There isn't much to look at in this empty purple room, and she has no idea why she brought him _here_, to this artificial arena that was the scene of so many of her interrogation sessions with Oberoth. It's like a default setting, though. Besides she can't think of any other place to take him.

His eyes eventually seek out her form again, and though minutes pass by and they say nothing at all, the way he's looking at her makes it difficult to breath. No one has ever been able to hold her gaze as intensely as John. She feels naked and exposed, but she can't look away.

"This is what happened to you, isn't it? Oberoth kept you in a place just like this."

She doesn't want to talk about it. "We can go somewhere else, if you like?

He licks his lips again. "Where?"

"Anywhere." She shrugs, then gestures wide with her hands, trying to ease the mood with a small smile. "I can take you anywhere you want to go, John. Just tell me where?"

"The Gateroom atrium," he says in a gruff voice, like his throat is too tight and he hasn't used his voice in days. "I don't suppose you could manage to swing that?"

She feels color drain from her cheeks, but after a beat, she just nods.

--

It's so bizarre to be standing in that _exact_ same spot in the Gateroom atrium, wearing her leather outfit, with John right beside her. Her eyes draw to the same ornate window that shattered two years ago, threw her into a coma and spat her back out like _this_. If she'd just been standing a few feet in either direction, her life would be different now.

John's thoughts follow a different path. "If I had just gotten the shields up two seconds earlier, or saved you from Oberoth or—"

"John," she stops him.

"There's not a day that went by that I didn't think about you. I missed you so goddamned much."

The statement knocks the breath out of her. When she normally thinks about that day, anger coils tight in her stomach – at fate, at her life and the road that lead them here – all of it familiar and heavy. But when she looks at him, all of it fades and the only thing she just wants to do is curl up in his arms.

She drops a hand to his shoulder, squeezing in comfort. "You can't blame yourself for what happened to me."

"Yes, I can," he says.

But his eyes say so much more.

--

Within twenty-four hours, John and the others regress back to normal. She stands watch over his infirmary bed for a few minutes that night, studying his profile in the dim light while he slumbers. A part of her knows now that he's still in love with her even after all this time. Even after everything. She wants to say that makes things easier – even better – for her.

But nothing is that simple.

--  
**Rule #8: Lie, if it works to your advantage. It can be an effective survival tool.**

She's given more freedom in the city after that, and the guard rotations are cut in half. Still, her crew grows restless and Elizabeth does her best to soothe them. But one day, after all the repairs, all the debriefings, all the official reasons for coming here have run dry, it's Ronon that pointblank asks her the question.

"You gonna leave soon, or what?"

Elizabeth fumbles for an answer, "Sometime. Yes. I don't know. I have to discuss it with my crew and Colonel Carter."

Ronon sits with his back against the wall, slouching, elbows resting on his knees. He gives her a look that she can't decipher, one that makes her think he sees right through her. She can't fathom what he reads in the stare, but after a moment he lifts his head and smirks. She doesn't know what she finds more irksome – that Ronon finds her amusing or that she can't figure out why.

"What?" she demands, self-consciously.

"You're not going anywhere," he declares, like he just told her the sky is blue.

--

Carim speaks for _Athena's_ crew. "You never want to leave here, do you?"

Elizabeth can't find the words to say anything but the truth. "This could be a good home for us."

Carim looks away, sighing in an utterly human way that she only learned from Elizabeth over the months. "You know we can't. You can, but we can't."

Elizabeth begins to protest, "I—"

"We can't," Carin repeats. "And you know it."

And just like that, so easily like sand slipping through her fingers, Elizabeth ends up watching the _Athena_ make final preparations for lift-off. As her crew load up on supplies Carter has released to them, John wanders in and stops short.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Carim answers, "We're leaving."

John's eyes fly to Elizabeth, and she nods. "Carter approved it just now."

There's an expression on his face, one she can't recognize, but something distracts her before she can dwell on it. Her attention gets pulled in a dozen different directions as she helps her crew – soon to be former crew – get everything in order. As she's giving her final instructions to Carim, she spots a familiar spike of messy hair from the corner of her eye.

John disappears around the hallway, and Carim speaks up, "He thought you were leaving with us."

"What?" Elizabeth's attention snaps to her.

"He thought you were leaving with us," Carim repeats. "I told him that you weren't, but he seemed rather… In any case, you should probably talk to him."

She nods, expression pinched with worry. An hour later after saying a few final goodbyes, she watches from the balcony as _Athena_ lifts off without her. A sickening void fills her stomach. There's no group of people left to call _hers_, now. No one that she can lay claim to and protect, and Elizabeth has always been the type of person who's needed other people to need her.

Which means she only has herself to worry about now, and that's a terrifying thought.

--  
**Rule #9: Learn from your mistakes. And damn it, try not to make new ones.**

Water drips off her hair and stains the ground when there's a three tap-knock at the door. Quick, successive – the urgent kind. She glances aside, debating her options briefly before she slides her palm against the console. The guard she expects to see first thing upon opening the door suddenly isn't there anymore.

Instead, there's John.

She's wearing a light knee-length robe and nothing else, and he strides through the entrance without waiting for her invitation. "Two years," he slurs, whirling around with eyes blazing. "I thought you were dead for two _fucking_ years. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Elizabeth freezes, thrown by the abrupt acidic that seems to come out of nowhere. That's when she notices it: the faint odor of alcohol in the air; his speech is slurred. She's never even seen him drink more than a single bottle of beer, but suddenly she can smell the stench of scotch on his breath from three feet away.

Recovering, she swipes the door closed and pivots to face him. "I stayed away because I had to," she reasons, trying to stay measured. "The IOA, the SGC, there was a chance they'd attack me at first sight."

"I wouldn't—"

"The SGC, the IOA," she repeats, reasoning. "I have nanites in my body, John. Millions and millions of nanites that were bred for violence. They wouldn't be unjustified in shooting first and asking questions later if I just showed up out of the blue at your doorstep."

"I wouldn't have allowed that," he insists angrily.

"You might not have been able—"

"Bullshit!" he exclaims in a harsh bark. "Why didn't you come to me?"

_To me._ Not to Atlantis, not to his team, but to him, specifically. The peculiar thing about her relationship with John is that it's never really been defined, not even when they'd been sleeping together. They don't fit into neat little boxes like "lovers" or "colleagues" or "friends." Still, there are times when their words, so naked in their utterance, end up saying entirely too much. More than any label ever could.

His eyes fill with vestiges of some grief, some dark twisted emotion she's never seen on his face before, and it shocks her into silence. "You should have tried to contact _me._"

She can't deny that, so she doesn't. Something in her reacts to the simple acknowledgment and she turns away, reaching for a towel. All their fights – personal or professional – have always been barbed with flat honesty. All of them cutting like a sharp blade. She needs something to do with her hands while she regroups, so she dries her hair as she walks away.

"I've been through a lot, John," she whispers, so softly. "If you knew half the things I've lived through…"

She cuts herself off because that's not a conversation either of them wants to have, not really. But it's too late and her words hit too close to home. Her eyes fall shut as she remembers months of torture in Oberoth's clutches, seeing her world crumble over and over again in his mindfucks. With John, in particular, she's seen his death dozens of times. The destruction of Atlantis, too. The death of her people. The fall of Earth. She _survived_ envisioning that, over and over again. She isn't being haughty when she thinks most other people wouldn't – couldn't – have done that.

But they've left ugly scars behind; the types she thinks won't ever really heal.

"I thought you were leaving today," he says, behind her, in a gruff voice that cuts her up inside. "I thought that you were…"

"I thought about it," she admits in faint voice. "I can't give you what we had before, John. If you're smart, you'll just walk away."

John is silent for a long beat. "When will you get it? I'm not going anywhere."

He turns her around and cups the back of her neck, tugging her to him. Fingers tangle in wet strands and the towel drops to the floor, and then John's kissing her for all he's worth. She drowns in the taste of scotch on his tongue, but the kiss is too soft, too much, too _telling_. It's desperate and needy, and goddamnit there's too much emotion behind it.

It scares her.

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeats against her lips, kissing her again.

God, her eyes sting with tears and she decides a change of tactic is more appropriate. Going with the strange adage of "feeling more to feel less," she drags him in for a hard kiss, tongues toying, mouth hot, biting his lower lip as she pulls away. The groan that escapes his throat is so darkly familiar and empowering, and then there's just blinding _need_ left behind.

Want. God. Fuck.

_John._

She's tired of pulling away from him when it seems as inevitable as two magnets being drawn together. Kisses blur one into another and soon he's frantically tugging open her thin robe, exposing her nude body underneath, yanking the material passed her shoulders so it falls free. They don't even make it to the bed, her fingers desperately working down the fly of his pants, his fumbling for her clit.

When she's flat on her back on the cold ground and John's heavy body is pushing into her, over and over and over again, she _really_ can't remember how this all started in the first place. It's a push and pull between two sides of a coin, two people – the Elizabeth from _before_, and the Elizabeth from _after_. Which one does she really want to be? The answer is obvious even in her darkest moments, but especially when she's like this with John.

Soft waves crash over and over at the base of the tower, but it's inaudible above John's harsh breathing and his half-muted curses. He keeps whispering things into her ear, confessions he would never say by the light of day, and her eyes prickle with unshed tears.

Too much. This is too much.

His skin is sleek with sweat, and when she scratches her nails all across the hard muscles of his back, he groans and slams into her just that much harder. She wraps her legs around his waist and forces him to pick up speed.

"Elizabeth," he keeps chanting, over and over again into her ear like a mantra. "Elizabeth."

She comes so hard that she almost blacks out.

--  
**Rule #10: Don't let fear stop you from doing anything. Ever.**

"Consider this a trial run," Carter says, sitting across from Elizabeth in the conference room with the slit walls. "It took a lot of strong-arming, but the IOA agreed to see how you'd be in the field on a provisional basis."

Elizabeth lets her gaze drift to the clear tabletop, studying the florescent glow of the lighting beneath it. The glass beneath her open palm is warm to the touch, and for a moment she doesn't say anything.

Carter continues, "You'll be on Lorne's team. I briefly toyed with the idea of setting you up on Colonel Sheppard's team, but… but I didn't want to let professional and personal lines blur too much, considering your recent developments."

It's a tactful and subtle indication that Carter _knows_ – about her relationship with John, that she's been sleeping with him for weeks now. And of course she knows; the guards wouldn't have been doing their jobs if they hadn't reported that John spent half his nights in her room. She wonders if Carter has mentioned anything about it to the brass back home, though. Would it even make a difference now?

This is still an opportunity. She should outright jump on it.

Why does she feel so hesitant, then?

Elizabeth tries for a smile. "When's my first mission?"

--

She steps up to the event horizon. Lorne is beside her, and Cadman on the other side, and they walk through the Stargate, one by one. She turns back just before stepping through, and spies John at the top of the balcony overlooking the Gateroom. This is such a familiar situation, but a unique perspective. Usually, their roles are reversed.

He waves to her, and she nods back, and then bracing herself with a drawn out breath, Elizabeth steps through the wormhole.

--

That night, John makes love to her over and over again, though he's still trying his best to downplay his anxiousness at the day's precedent. He spoons against her back and they're both drowsy but fighting the pull of slumber. He runs the pads of his fingers across her naked thigh, the tacky sweat on their skin drying in the cool pre-dawn air. Blades of light filter in through her side window, and Elizabeth releases a soft breath.

"Hey," he whispers, when she stares off into the distance. "Where's your head at right now?"

She tilts her head aside. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

--

After another two months of good behavior, Elizabeth gets assigned permanent housing that sits on the west wing of Atlantis, not far from John's quarters. The main bedroom is utilitarian and small, but it still seems too big after months spent in a cell or cramped quarters on board the _Athena_. Elizabeth requisitions a large desk and a bookshelf, lining the walls with books and all her former possessions.

John drops off a clay pot with a smirk. "Thought you might want this back."

The two guards get reduced to one, and then eventually to none.

--

Rule # 10 is the only rule she never breaks. Not even once.

--  
Fin.


End file.
